Love is a Banquet

Chapter Four Tuscan Pork Stew

Jake

I'm sitting here with Leo and his Uncle Robert in their friend's restaurant in Tuscany. We arrived here this afternoon and I still can't quite believe it. Beautiful scenery, gorgeous weather, the sexiest boyfriend -- I feel like my life got mixed up with someone else's.

We're drinking the local Chianti, unsophisticated and fruity, but I must be careful -- I do tend to talk too much when I've had a drink and I don't want to be talking rubbish to Leo's uncle. It does feel a bit like I'm meeting the parents, so I want to make a good impression for Leo's sake. I pour myself out a glass of water, Robert pushing the jug towards me, his nails beautifully manicured. I steal a glance at my own nails -- all shapes and sizes. I look up and smile at him in thanks. You'd never think he and Leo are related. Robert has a much softer, rounder face, brown hair and brown eyes, quite ordinary really. His skin is very soft though; I noticed as we embraced.

I look over towards the door to the toilets, just in time to see Leo coming out at the same instant a dark haired man is going in. I see from the look on Leo's face that he recognises him; he flashes his heart melting smile, but then I see puzzlement as the man pushes past him. Leo sits down next to me just as Patrick, the giant of a man that owns the restaurant, brings a tray of antipasto to our table.

'Marco'? He asks, looking at Leo. Leo nods and Patrick points to a pretty young woman at another table.'That's his wife. They're all good catholic boys round here, you know, they all do what mama wants in the end.' As we're all looking at the young woman, the man Leo encountered returns to their table and grimaces a silent apology to Leo, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. He is young and startlingly handsome and I look towards Leo, trying to read his expression; but he is looking intently at the label on the wine bottle. I place my hand on his thigh under the table, giving it a friendly squeeze. There's obviously some history between Leo and this Marco. What if this gorgeous guy is an old boyfriend? -- I'll have to ask Leo about him later. He takes my hand in his and returns the squeeze. We help ourselves to the wonderful selection of meat, cheese and olives and Robert asks us both questions that we answer in between mouthfuls of delicious food.

Patrick brings over his speciality - pork stew and eats it with us. He has removed the long black apron he was wearing, revealing pale blue linen trousers and has also taken off the dark blue bandanna he wore on his head whilst in the kitchen. His hair is quite short and startlingly silver white, contrasting with his very tanned, lined face. His eyes are very blue and twinkly and he holds your gaze quite strongly while talking to you -- not quite enough to make you feel uncomfortable -- but you can sense his strength of will in those eyes. He must be in his sixties, but he is very tall and broad, and very muscular. I could feel the strength in his handshake and his hard leathery skin, as we were introduced. He has been running this restaurant for many years and it has been 'discovered' a couple of times now; each time bringing in an influx of critics and foreign tourists looking for 'authentic' food. Patrick's grandmother was Italian and it's her recipes that he's based his current dishes on.

The stew smells absolutely wonderful. I can see pieces of carrot along with the small chunks of pork, in a reddish brown gravy. Patrick tells me it's got onions and celery in it also, but they've cooked down into the sauce. I stick my fork into a cube of pork and it falls in two, revealing the succulent white meat, starkly contrasting with the dark red sauce. I spear a piece and taste it -- it just falls apart in my mouth before I have chance to chew it. The flavour is mouth wateringly gorgeous; obviously the two days it's been marinading in chianti has been worth while. There is the heavy local bread to eat with it -- and this is very useful to mop up the juices. I am definitely going to have to learn how to make this dish.

My dad liked to cook. My mum did most of the cooking, but hers was the everyday stuff: roasts, cottage pie, toad in the hole -- meat and two veg type meals. Dad was more adventurous: moussaka, paella and he did a mean chilli. I always loved to help with the cooking, right from being little. Sandra showed no interest in cooking -- just eating. Mum tried to encourage her, saying she'd need to be able to cook for her husband when she grew up -- but that didn't prove sufficient incentive for my sister. I remember the first meal that I cooked by all myself, I must have been 13 or 14 -- I made a mushroom omelette for tea -- along with salad. My mum hovered over me as I made it, nervously instructing me, probably scared I would either burn myself or her new frying pan. It was a success -- I was very proud of myself and I remember that Sandra got to do both the washing and drying up that night.

Leo is talking animatedly, having drunk a fair amount of wine; he has a tiny piece of pork on his fork that he's waving around, emphasising some point. It stops momentarily in front of my face and I eat it, grabbing hold of his wrist to make sure I don't lose it. Leo stops talking and looks at me quizzically.

'You like my stew?' Patrick asks, his white teeth as bright and shiny as his eyes. I feel my cheeks flush, as if I've been caught doing something naughty.

'I love it. It's the nicest thing I've eaten for ages. I'm not usually bothered about pork -- but this was delicious.' I feel warm and satisfied. Lots of wine -- despite my best intentions -- wonderful food and the best company. Leo obviously has a lot of respect for Patrick, listening earnestly to what he says; whereas he quite often talks over his Uncle. His face is flushed with the wine, his eyes are sparkling and watching him with his family, I feel such a rush of love for him; it wells up in me suddenly and I feel overwhelmed by the enormity of my feelings. I pour myself out a large glass of water, my hands shaking slightly. I catch Patrick's eye as I replace the jug, and I get the strangest notion that he knows what I was just thinking.

Patrick

Such a pleasant evening; Jake is an enchanting young man; Robert looks happier than he has done for a good while. I've known Robert for many years, ever since he and Martin first bought the villa. They had spent all their savings on it, and gradually did it up over the years, their plan being to retire there as soon as they could afford it.

I do like to cook for my friends; people think that I must find it a chore, because I'm always cooking in the restaurant, but to cook a meal for one's friends is different. To sit and enjoy it with them is a real treat for me, too often my meals are snatched, eaten standing up, when there's a lull. There's nothing like the luxury of spending a whole evening sharing dinner in really good company; savouring each course, having lots of the local chianti to drink and gossip to catch up on.

Leo is obviously at peace with himself. It's easy to see why he is so happy: I'm so relieved. It was a different story the last time he was here, earlier in the year.

I found Leo practically unconscious lying on the ground in the square outside the bar, one night after closing. He'd been severely beaten. I drove to the hospital with Robert holding Leo in the back seat -- Leo fell in and out of consciousness. I kept looking in the rearview mirror, checking on them. I caught Leo's eye in the reflection one time when he was with it for a while. His look sent a chill down my spine -- he gave me such a defiant stare -- not that of a victim, but one who is in control still. I was really worried at his attitude -- he reminded me so much of Loulou. I 'd seen that same 'fuck you' attitude in her eyes and she perished after one too many visits to Fire Island.

She was short and slight with white blond hair and big pale grey eyes. Her eyebrows and lashes were so pale as to be nearly invisible. Her skin was flawless, translucent, but not radiant, somehow lacking something, bloodless and wan.

She lived with John and Rufus mostly; sought refuge with them; more often than not they'd all three wake up together, Loulou having crept into their big bed in the small hours. I came calling one Sunday morning, bringing breakfast of croissants and brioche (I was on my French kick) and the four of us sat in bed dropping flaky pastry crumbs all over the blue and white checkered duvet. It was then that I noticed for the first time the scars on Loulou's arms and chest. I was just going to ask about them, when I realised they were self-inflicted; and I saved my enquiry for another day.

John and Rufus had been a couple since whenever and their relationship appeared not to suffer for the occasional agreed infidelity. Their relationship with Loulou bordered on that of parents and child; certainly it was much better than that which Loulou had experienced with her own parents.

She told me something of her childhood, late one night when she'd finished her shift at the hotel and was waiting for one of her 'gentleman friends' to pick her up.

I hurried her on down the street, past the crowds of people out for the evening. Loulou made 'straight' people uneasy -- she had an air of timidity, vulnerability and seemed to attract more aggressors than protectors. She did not have the brashness, the insouciance of a fully fledged drag queen, which might have protected her somewhat. We sat by the window in the all-night cafe, our coffee going cold as she talked.

'You know I was abused? But don't you dare think that being abused made me the way I am -- It was because of the way I am that I was abused. I must have been about seven or eight. I'd already decided that I didn't want to be a boy, I'd much rather be a girl; but I was old enough to know that this was not going to happen. I did the classic 'mixed up little boy' thing -- trying on my mother's clothes, her perfume and even, if left alone for long enough, her make-up. I loved the feel of the fabrics -- soft and smooth, and I loved lipstick -- I loved the way it made my mouth so big and red -- the rest of my face seemed to fade away and it was like I was just this swollen, shiny, red hole.

It wasn't my dad -- he has to take some of the blame, but he didn't do it. It was the boys from next door who used to babysit for me and my sister. They were probably only thirteen or fourteen themselves. I was drawing a picture -- I was always drawing pictures of me as a girl -- with beautiful long blonde hair and a scarlet mouth. I would draw long dresses -- like a princess might wear. They asked me about my drawing and I told them. So they devised the game -- I was thrilled to be playing an actual princess -- they got my sister to dress me up in some of her dressing up clothes and I sneaked some of my mum's lipstick. I felt so beautiful -- this was the best game ever. One of the boys was the baddie and had captured me and the other had to rescue me. The baddie tied me up on my bed and raped me. My 'rescuer' claimed a similar prize for liberating me. They babysat for me often that summer and we always played the same game. The exhilaration I felt from being allowed to be a princess was worth it. I saw it as a trade-off. My sister grew to despise me and called me vile names. Looking back I think my family were a bit scared of me -- not knowing really what I was. I found it hard to pretend to be something I wasn't. Being a princess was easy -- it was being a little boy that I found hard.'

Loulou got up and went then, hardly looking back at me, as she spotted her friend outside. I felt a bit like a priest must feel after a confession, quite weighed down by what she had been told me. There were questions that I still wanted to ask, but did not get a chance.

I was scared that Leo was already on the same path as Loulou -- carefully engineering his own self destruction.

It wasn't long after his overnight stay in hospital that things finally came to a head. It had been another busy night in the bar, and the restaurant had been fully booked. I'd been rushed off my feet and hadn't really had time to talk to anyone apart from the dinner guests. I 'd done my 'genial host' bit and was enjoying the relative peace of the bar, now the drinkers were mostly wending their way home. I was aware that Leo had been in the bar all evening, and as was his habit every night since coming out to stay with Robert, charming drinks and more out of various men. He was actually paying for a drink himself for once, and as he took out the euros, a business card fell out and slid across the bar, fluttering onto the floor at my feet. Il Lago Produzioni emblazoned in lurid pink lettering, a muscular naked man leering cheerfully.

'What's this, Leo?'

'Oh, nothing really. Un molto bel ragazzo gave it to me. Said I was what they were looking for.'

'Don't tell me you're going!'

'They've got auditions tomorrow. I think I'll go and give it a go -- after all - what have I got to lose?' He was so brash and arrogant that I'm afraid I lost my temper. I grabbed a handful of his T-shirt and shook him roughly. He slid off the bar stool and crumpled onto the floor, grinning stupidly.

I'd known Leo since he was a boy, Robert inviting his family to stay at the villa on an annual basis. Robert was very worried about Leo, and had invited him over this spring to give him the space to 'get his head together'. But Robert hadn't reckoned on the flexibility of the local boys and the availability of pharmaceuticals, even in rural Tuscany.

'Leo! This behaviour stops now! Every night a different boy! Too much alcohol and too many drugs! And now you're thinking of what? Becoming a porn star? You have so much to lose you stupid boy! Your uncle is so worried about you and you're throwing your life away!' I was shouting at him now, my face inches from his, he was sitting on the floor, his head resting against the tubular legs of the bar stool, lolling somewhat. I was so angry, my hand raised to slap him before I noticed a tear rolling down his face.

'Come on, Leo. You'd better stay here tonight,' I helped him to his feet but he backed off angrily, shouting, struggling with the zip on his jeans. He grabbed his penis and shouted;

'Come on then! Is this what you want? I thought you were different -- but you're just like all the rest!'

Robert

Patrick keeps giving me sidelong glances, when he thinks I won't notice -- he's waiting to hear my decision. My dear friend Patrick, who has always been there for me; taking care of me after Martin died and persuading me not to sell the villa. It had been such a part of our lives together, that I couldn't bear to be there alone. But now I know I did the right thing. Being able to escape from everyday dreariness to this haven, if only for three or four weeks a year has helped me through my grieving.

Across the table, looking stunning, happy and healthy, Leo is extolling the virtues of Patrick's cooking to Jake. They are both so relaxed in each others' company, I was surprised when Leo said that they've only known each other a month, they have that easy manner that one notices with longtime couples. They bring back memories of Martin and myself when we were young.

We met in the heady days of the GLF; we both went on the very first Pride March in London. That first time there were barely two hundred of us and I felt so self conscious, but exhilarated,walking along holding Martin's hand in one hand and a 'Gay Liberation Front' placard in the other. We got to know each other over the course of that year between marches, and attended some wonderfully anarchic political meetings. There were a great many more marchers at the second event; we thought we'd really achieved something. We were idealists -- we thought we could change the world. We thought we had. But it makes me so sad to see how difficult it was for Leo to accept his sexuality, even in these supposedly enlightened times.

Martin was much more flamboyant than I was: anyone could tell he was gay -- whereas I passed quietly in my sombre world of accounting. I never hid the fact of my sexuality from anyone though. When Martin and I decided to buy a house together, I told my family and they were fairly neutral about it. I think they saw our relationship solely as two bachelors sharing a house together -- I don't believe people wanted to think about us as a real couple. We always went everywhere together though -- to work parties and family get-togethers. There was no way we were going to hide away -- not after all we'd worked for. But it was hard work -- we both dutifully signed our names on our Christmas cards but the ones we received from our families would be addressed to only one of us. It was like we didn't exist as a couple. I knew that my brother, Peter wasn't happy about Leo spending so much time with myself and Martin; but to say anything directly would have meant his acknowledging the fact we were a couple; and so he kept quiet and Leo loved to come and spend a few weeks each summer with us in the villa. Martin and I were together for nearly thirty years and he set fireworks off in my soul, right from when we first met until he died. We still felt the same love and desire for each other as in the beginning and I still wake up in the night with a sense of panic because I've reached out for him and found emptiness.

I haven't seen Leo for some time -- when I was naïvely trying to help him and instead ended up speeding up his headlong flight into disaster. I could see that he was hurting himself, but didn't know how to help him. I missed Martin so much at this time; he would have known what to do. Thank God for Patrick. He was able to do what I wasn't. He rang to say that Leo was going to stay the night with him. That night had a big effect on Leo. He stayed on at the villa for another week or so, but hardly ventured outside. He read voraciously -- Martin had been a big reader and there were a lot of his books on the shelves -- by authors such as Armistead Maupin, Patrick Gale and Alan Hollinghurst. As if he thought he could find an answer there. He seems to have been looking for answers most his adult life. Thinking back, as a teenager he was so restless, so unsettled. Martin was always good with him, persuading him to do things that I couldn't, like visiting a museum or washing up. Leo was always keen to please Martin.

There was one particular incident, when Leo was much younger and had been in the villa overnight with Patrick keeping an eye on him and Martin and I arrived early in the morning to find that all the photos we had discreetly put out of sight (my brother is from the out of sight out of mind school of dealing with things) all arranged in the living room. I didn't quite know what I should do about it; but Martin simply said to Leo that he liked to have the one in the frame that I carved by his bedside. And that was that -- Martin said that we shouldn't be cross with him -- he was just testing boundaries and he'd only put our photos back where we usually had them -- like any couple would.

Oh Martin -- I think it's very strange when people say they cannot remember the faces of their loved ones. I can see him now: his thin, floppy blond hair, that got thinner over the years; his strong brow; his blue eyes, ( limpid pools -- always hated that expression -- sounds so flat and shallow), his eyes were more like fiery oceans; his pointed nose and prominent cheekbones; his thin-lipped, wide mouth; occasionally he'd cultivate a moustache that was blond with ginger flecks in it (he'd say they were auburn) and his beard growth was so soft and downy, like a boy's. I can still feel the contours of his jaw, cradled in my hands countless times. How could I not remember?